“Haley’s problem is that she’s addicted, she’s addicted to strangers!”

This quote is intended to be read aloud in a Dashiell-Hammett-esque tone. My twin sister, “Tuna,” recently had an epiphany about the primary problem I face by living in New York City. I moved there temporarily in June and am now staying indefinitely. I don’t have a job or any prospects, per se, but I have procured myself free accomodations of a similarly indefinite nature (in a maid’s quarters tucked away in one of those art deco lobbied doorman buildings on Park Avenue). My living situation alone epitomizes my “stranger situation,” as the maid’s quarters where I reside belongs to my mother’s interior design client’s Chinese art dealer’s ex-client, a man who remains a stranger to me, as I have never even seen his face and only heard his voice once, distantly, as though off-stage.

While there are strangers and new faces in any small town or large city, Manhattan offers a certain something extra, and is therefore a “danger zone” for my curious and BPD self. I am a bit too quick to invite new people into my life and to accept invitations to partake in novel events. I always seem to use the excuse of doing “research” for an upcoming piece of writing (this blog, case in point). Aside from run-of-the-mill strangers, this urban center offers the fancy variety, in the form of A, B, and C-list celebrities who frequent the streets and darker underbellies of New York. I recently designed this t-shirt as an homage to two of my favorite “stalkable” and intriguing icons. I am still awaiting their arrival into my life.

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